


A breathful of heartbeats

by dustbunnyprophet



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, as a matter of fact this is probably the closest to fluff I'll ever get, but not my usual amount of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-05 21:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5390222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't want to talk to him. He didn't want to joke and laugh and pretend that everything was perfectly fine when it wasn't. When all could have gone terribly wrong. When they almost lost everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A breathful of heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LillaMyy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillaMyy/gifts).



 

 

 

 

 

> “ _Since the ratio between a somewhat excited pulse rate and the normal rate of breathing [...] is about five to one, we would not be too far off in thinking of iambic pentameter as a breathful of heartbeats._
> 
> _Western Wind: an introduction to poetry, by John Frederick Nims_ ”

 

The ink dripped from the sharp tip, falling back into the inkwell in ever-expanding ripples that broke against the thick glass. Ori lifted the quill with a well-practised motion and the tip scratched the surface of the parchment which slowly drank the lines of ink - the angles of the runes which lined one after the other. Blank spaces wide as abysses between one word and the other seemed to swallow the silence which they were meant to be and Ori's lips paused for a heartbeat before resuming their quiet whispering of the lines he was transcribing

He could feel the rhythm of the ancient Dwarven poetry as he wrote it down on the fast growing pile of parchment. Reaching the end of a yellowed page, Ori carefully inspected his fingers for fresh ink stains before he went and gently turned a page of the thick tome he was transcribing. The Second Age volume lay on the bookrest in front of him, both its leather binding and the edges of the parchment darkened by millennia's worth of dust. As he copied a long Westron word which completed the alliteration of the verse, Ori risked raising his voice above a hushed whisper. The Scriptorium was empty and the verses resounded in the high-vaulted chamber, filling the dry air with kennings and repetitions worthy of the Khuzdul rhymes they had meant to emulate.

Reaching a pause he found himself smiling. There was little he enjoyed more that this – transcribing in earnest in spite of the lateness of the hour and enjoying the calming solitude of the Library. It was his favourite time of the day, when he was left to copy under the warm light of the crystal lamps which hung from the ceiling on thick iron chains and not a single soul disturbed him.

He resumed his work until he reached another caesura and his voice died down for a moment before the constant scratching of his quill accompanied the weak syllable he uttered next - followed by the strong one a moment later. And as his voice bounced from the thick walls it sounded much like the pounding of phantom drums, or like the shuffling of feet on stone – like the busy hallways beyond the thick wooden door of the Library.

His quill faltered a moment as his eyes flew to his left, enraptured by the thought of the countless halls of Erebor and the noise of the sleepless Mountain, where day and night the halls were filled with dwarrows chiselling and carving – labouring to wipe away chip by chip the traces of the dragon's passage. And amongst the stonemasons' work was the buzzing of hundreds of voices, the hustle and bustle of people coming and going, talking and laughing - and filling the once eerily silent Mountain with life.

He lowered his eyes to his desk as he recalled the hastily written runes thrown haphazardly on the pages of his travel journal during the few moments of respite from the ceaseless travelling, and a strange heaviness settled in his bones – like a shade of wistful disappointment and bitter relief.

He shook his head lightly, forcing his eyes to return to his text, even as his mind drew for the umpteenth time the comparison between the thick silence of the Mountain on the day they had finally stepped inside its halls and the bubbling of life that was Erebor now. It was so strange to see the pace with which they were rebuilding their kingdom. Only seven months had passed since Durin's Day and yet their kin - with their inborn efficiency - had not only long made the Mountain habitable, but ever since the Battle had been won caravans of dwarrows had come, week after week to pledge their service to the King Under the Mountain. And suddenly everything had begun to change, to grow.

Some nights when he trudged towards his quarters Ori would stop atop a staircase or in the middle of a passage and watch in amazement at just how much had been restored in a shy few months. But, inspiring as the sight was, Ori also often found himself bowing his head to avoid the rumbustious attitude of his kin-men and instead choosing the quiet of the Scriptorium.

There was solace to be found amongst the parchment and a cure for the hopes which had failed to be fulfilled. Hopes Ori was loath to admit to himself in any but the quietest hours of the night. But they still stung with the hollow ache of a missing limb, rendered worse in the face of the cheerfulness everyone else sported. The joy of those who acclaimed Ori as one of the heroes for his role in reclaiming the Mountain – but Ori didn't feel like a hero, not at all. He had been so scared, so terribly scared he could still feel the ghost shivers of terrors under his skin, crawling inside his chest when he woke in the middle of the night panting from a nightmare and had to force his breaths to still down, hoping against hope he had not cried out and Dori would not knock on his door, nervously clutching at his nightgown while he looked at Ori with _knowing_ eyes.

No, Ori was no hero. He was just a young dwarf who had foolishly dreamed about a better future and had not thought there would be prize to pay – but by Mahal it could have been _worse,_ he kept repeating it to himself. It could have been _infinitely_ worse.

He sighed, dipping the quill in the inkwell once again.

Ori's life before the Quest had been simple. There had been Dori, Nori and him and the everyday struggle to make ends meet. Ori apprenticing as a scribe and trying to keep his nose out his notes while he walked back to their humble home, lest he tripped and fell down the stairs, like he had once had the misfortune of doing - and how horribly _embarrassing_ it had been. He felt a flush creep on his cheeks even after all this time when he recalled how busy Thorin's Halls' central hall had been at that particular hour – how the Princes had not let him live it down for a very long time, teasing him mercilessly. And how _Fíli's_ eyes had always shined with a twinkle of mirth that knotted the very roots of his stomach – a twinkle which would still yield the same reaction in Ori if he didn't avoid him. Them. Everyone.

He shook his head, but he knew he _had_ to admit it to himself that he had been dealing with the aftermath cravenly. If only his own thoughts would stop feeling so heavy lately. He sighed. The journey from the Blue Mountains had changed the very structure of his soul, rewriting the way Ori looked at the world and a weary acceptance of his limits had settled on his shoulders in its wake. The limits to what Ori could hope for, but moreover what Ori _dared_ hoping for. And lately it wasn't much. Not much at all.

Ori closed his eyes, feeling the muscles in his neck give away under the weight of his thoughts and his head bowed. Things were as they were. There was nothing he could do but accept what life gave him and hope that with time that nameless ache would gradually vanish.

His lips pulled in a thin line and he squeezed his eyes before opening them. He had work to finish – and working was good, it numbed everything out until nothing but the scraping of the quill and the soft muttering of his voice remained.

He carefully turned the next page, smoothing the ancient sheet of parchment with his fingers and he took hold of the quill once again. His eyes fastened on the next sonnet and despite the gravity which seemed to pull all his thoughts of late towards a wrecking end, it only took a moment for the words to evoke images of a world long gone.

 

-

 

The tankard hit the table with a loud thud, spilling foam over the edge and Fíli turned his head towards his brother’s grinning face, eyes merrily dancing in amusement. The hall was brimming with the noise of the assembled dwarrows, loudly laughing and singing. It was no particular occasion that saw them gathered on that particular night, and yet somehow it had ended in a shindig which was shaping to be as rowdy as the victory celebrations - belated as they had been in the wake of the injuries which had almost wiped away the Line of Durin. Nearly all the members of the Company were there, feasting and being generally loud and cheerful. With the glaring exception of their burglar, who had returned to the Shire soon after the Battle but with a promise to return. And Ori.

The scribe’s absence, shy and mostly silent as the young dwarf usually was almost tangible for him. Especially since lately he hardly ever saw him. And that gaping hole which grew larger with each passing day bothered him more than anything. He had grown accustomed to Ori being around - always there on the periphery of Fíli's line of sight. And even if they had spent far less time than Fíli would have liked in the company of one another, his silent presence had been something akin his brother’s, and yet so _profoundly different -_  Ori was as far from being a sibling as Fíli could conceive. He was… Fíli didn’t know what he was. All he knew was that Ori wasn’t currently around and he _should_ have been.

It was his place as a member of the former Company, but it was also more than that. Fíli missed the quiet but barbed jokes, the dry humour, the wide-eyed enthusiasm about anything related to lore – the possessive way with which he had always shielded his journal from prying eyes. And then there was the laughter, the way he evenly matched any of them when it came to proving his resilience. The grim determination with which he had cleaved through the enemy ranks, gripping Dwalin's war-hammer with the same ease with which his fingers cradled a quill.

Ori should have been there with them, but lately he was an evanescent presence, always hurrying away to his books and his parchment. And the others had begun to notice it as well, but after a while no one asked after him that much and Dori and Nori seemed as resigned as everyone else.

“Are you going to drink that?” Kíli's voice shook him from his musings and he was about to give him a cheeky reply when he the words stopped behind his teeth. As he gazed at his brother's grinning face and the carefree laughter of Glóin across the table who was grabbing his stomach in the aftermath of a joke someone had told, he suddenly knew, for all their fun he had been having there was somewhere _else_ he wanted to be at the moment – _someone_ else in whose company he wanted to be, and no amount of remorseful thinking was going to change that.

He had been waiting long enough. It was time to act.

“I think I'm going to call it a night.” Fíli told his brother, getting up from the bench before Kíli had the time to protest – and he was about to, Fíli could see it from the way his facial muscles moved, only slowed a bit by the amount of ale he had drunk in the course of the evening.

“I'll see you in the morning.” he said, giving Kíli a slap on his shoulder and striding out of the room.

The rest of the Company kept singing loudly, with Bofur stomping the rhythm atop the table, no one noticing Fíli's departure, and he was glad of it. Mostly because he wasn't sure exactly _what_ he was about to do – only that he was tired of wondering.

As he descended several flights of stairs Fíli received nods of greeting from the various dwarrows he passed by. He noted there were way more people milling through the halls that he had been used to see around at this hour, back in the Blue Mountains. Everything was so different in Erebor. Sometimes it felt to Fíli as if the very stone of the Mountain incited his kin to push harder, to work more, striving for heights and depths they would have never otherwise try reaching. But as he walked through the large halls whose arches disappeared in the darkness above, intricately carved by the skilled hand of their forefathers, he could not escape the challenge they posed, the yearning to surpass those who had come before them and be greater than them, make and built objects of greater beauty and might. And they could. Where else would it be possible but in Erebor. There was something in this mountain, something alive and breathing with the heartbeat of thousands of dwarrows. Something yearning which got stronger and sturdier with every day, with every new dwarf who returned to their homeland - a purpose, a _hope_ which their kin built, like everything else, forging its structure from stubbornness, chiselling its surface with their labour and working it until it shone blindingly bright with the promise of a future.

Fíli veered left and began ascending the stairs once again, undeterred by the maze-like structure of the halls which their burglar had found frustratingly confusing - or so Balin had claimed. In truth, Fíli had not had the chance to spend much time with Bilbo before the hobbit had left with Gandalf. He had hoped Bilbo would stay - they all had, some more than the other - but Fíli had understood. He had not liked it – one look at the stony grimness which had crept in his Uncle’s gaze had been enough for Fíli to wish Bilbo would change his mind and stay. But for all that he wished Thorin some joy in the hard life he had been forced to lead – some respite after all the pain he had endured, and the one he had wrought – Fíli had not been able to find it in his heart to begrudge the halfling his choice. How could anyone ask him to uproot himself, leaving his hearth and stone, for them?

And yet, Fíli was sure there had been reluctance in the way he had parted with them, a shade of wistfulness in Bilbo's eyes which reassured Fíli in the end that Bilbo _would_ make good of his promise. And come back. Pushing thoughts of his Uncle and the burglar away, Fíli focused on the hallways which were growing less crowded in this part of the Mountain.

A knot of apprehension began building inside him as he neared the Library - he had _no doubt_ Ori was there. It seemed to be the only place the other dwarf could be found lately.

Fíli wondered, not for the first time, _why_ Ori no longer spent time with any of them - with _him._ The thought made something tighten under his breastbone and with it came the memory of quiet conversations by the wan light of a dying camp-fire, barely embers and yet their orange light dancing over the other dwarf’s freckled face - a face shrouded in darkness during the endless journey through the accursed elven forest.

They had whispered them, sitting side by side with their back against the bark of a giant tree, with the cacophony of snores in the background and Kíli kicking in his sleep on Fíli's left. And while the words exchanged were slippery in his memory, Fíli still recalled with sharp clarity the warm length of Ori’s arm pressed against his own – shoulder to wrist - the only solid thing pushing away the tendrils of madness which had tugged like dark vines at Fíli's consciousness. There had been something, an unnamed something brewing during their quest, which Fíli had cherished silently, treasuring it for the precious thing it was.

But ever since he had arrived in Erebor all had changed. Their arrival at the Mountain, belated and unexpected had soon got mixed with the preparations for the upcoming battle and Fíli had only been able to see Ori’s visibly relieved face - ashen and pale. Fíli remembered the sudden urge he had felt to pull the scribe in a bone-crushing embrace and hold him there until Ori began complaining, scrunching his freckled face in his trademark pout of disapproval - the one which had never failed to elicit laughter from Fíli. But his uncle had demanded his presence. And afterwards, one event after the other had conspired against him, never giving Fíli a moment alone with Ori - a moment to simply be.

And now, now that the dragon was gone, the Battle was done with and the peace had exploded in a flurry of dwarves labouring to bring their Kingdom to its former glory, now Ori was never around.

Fíli had had enough of waiting.

 

-

 

Hours, days, centuries passed for Ori, his mind lulled by the repetitive motions of writing down the ancient verses. He had managed to detach himself completely from the disquiet which had been brewing inside him and a peace had settled over his mind. He mouthed a string of verses, emboldened in his enunciation by the prolonged emptiness of the Library. He had just stressed a syllable when the verse was suddenly shattered by the quiet creaking of the door.

His mouth snapped shut and his brow furrowed in surprise while a blush crept up his neck. His hand hovered in mid-air, quill tightly gripped between his fingers. Holding his breath, Ori listened to the faint whisper of noise filtering from the outside corridor before a quiet thud plunged the Library in silence once again.

Craning his neck towards his left, even though the row of pillars which divided the Scriptorium from the Library obscured his view of the door, Ori gazed towards the exit, wondering who could it be this late. His fellow scribes had long untucked their beards from their belts and left for the night and Ori felt his frown deepen even as the distant sound of footsteps grew louder.

Ori found himself sliding off the bench, quill still in hand. It took a few steps to walk past the row of pillars which divided the Scriptorium from the Library and Ori stepped out into the high-vaulted hall, frowning in bemusement. The shadows were longer in the hall, but dim as the light was it still caught in the hair of the blond dwarf who was making his way across the hall. The _familiar_ blond dwarf.

And suddenly Ori's curiosity gave way to irritation.

Before the other dwarf had a chance to notice him Ori slipped back into the shadow of the pillars, striding back to his desk with a small scowl of displeasure on his lips at the unwanted presence in his haven - the blessedly still _alive_ one, in spite of all odds. And if his heart fluttered for the briefest moment, Ori chose to ignore it, focusing rather on the irritation he felt at the Prince, just as his footsteps got nearer and nearer to the Scriptorium.

“Ori?” that familiar voice called out from beyond the archway and Ori closed his eyes, trying to will away the jumbled array of emotions which were pulling at his heartstrings.

“It's a Library, Fíli.” he lifted his eyes, his voice terse “You are supposed to be quiet.”

He couldn't explain his reaction - it was a mixture of longing and fear, the fear which still made him wake in the middle of the nights with a name on his lips, shaking like a leaf and scared. So terribly, terribly scared. Because it had been so close. A _hairbreadth_ away. And Ori would never forget those first few weeks after the Battle when their King and Princes had tethered between life and death, their shallow breaths feeding their hopes and fears in equal measure. He could not erase from his mind the unbearable notion that they had nearly lost them.

And yet, somewhere beneath his irritation, Ori knew he was being unfair to the Prince, but he couldn't help being upset by how cheerful, how carefree he was. Almost as if nothing had happened – almost as if he hadn't nearly died.

“Oh, here you are.” Fíli said cheerfully, stepping into view, blond hair neatly braided and the regal blue tunic adorned with silver and gold.

“And really, it seems to me you are talking as well.” he was grinning cheekily, his moustache framing his lips as dimples appeared on both sides of his face.

Ori knew he was not entitled to this anger - he had no right to lecture the Crown Prince, of all people, _what would Dori say?_ And yet, all it took to summon the memory of his nearly bloodless visage for Ori to be brought on the verge of shouting out in outrage. Because how could he be so foolish? How dare he worry them so?

Worry him so.

But instead of the biting retort that lingered on the top of his tongue Ori replied a half-stuttered

“Yes, well, there is no one but me, so...” while his fingers curled into a fist and he wondered how to make himself scarce without raising any questions.

Because Ori knew it was better if he was not around him - it was better if Ori wasn't around anyone for that part. Not until he had managed to come to terms with the past - with the nightmares. The blood and snow, the mourning choirs which could have easily been theirs. With the lifeless bodies which could have been them - which could have been _Fíli_.

Suddenly he felt something sharp sting his palm and dropping his eyes he saw the rachis of the quill he had been holding had snapped in half. He blinked, watching the ink-stained tip and the limp barbs, while Fíli obliviously plopped himself down on a bench nearby,

“Well, in that case I don't see where the problem is.” Fíli concluded happily, his grin becoming a proper smile.

He watched Ori for a moment, waiting for a reply, but all Ori could think about – other than the horrible horrible things which had been his closest companions for the past seven months was the sight of Fíli's fingers idly toying with the contents of the desk in front of him.

“Could you please not do that?” he suddenly asked, feeling his irritation hum as it channelled into something justified “Someone is working on that transcription”

“You might smudge the ink.” he finished weakly, deflated.

Why was everything so complicated?

“You're turning into Dori, you know?” Fíli observed, but put back the inkwell where it had been lying.

“I'll take that as a compliment.” Ori replied without feeling, then asked wearily “Is there a reason why you are here? Because I have a lot of work to do.”

“So much work you can't find a moment to spend with your friends?” the blond asked with a raised eyebrow, while his head leaned forward, blue eyes piercing “Because it has been pointed out by my brother and several of my cousins – you know the ones you had been travelling for six months across Middle Earth? Yes, well it has been pointed out that you haven't been seen in weeks. And you see, naturally I got worried you might have transcribed yourself to death, or something.”

Ori blinked

“Transcribed myself to death?” he asked, flatly and Fíli gave him a lopsided grin as he shrugged, which made Ori blink.

There was a chuckle somewhere, waiting to find its outlet but Ori stifled it. He was a _ridiculous_ dwarf, but he couldn't dismiss everything, he couldn't go and _pretend._ The fear had been real. Why should the aftermath be any different?

But Fíli had a point, somewhere under the dismissal of the danger he had been in, so Ori heaved a sigh and replied placatively

“I'm fine.” while he fiddled with the hem of his tunic and tried to push back his thoughts “I've just been busy.”

“Right.” the Prince replied, unconvinced.

Ori's fingers curled around the thick fabric, pulling at a string where it had gotten loose while the silence between them stretched.

“Ori, is everything all right?” Fíli asked, suddenly very serious – very much his regal self and Ori couldn't help feeling the ripple in the bottom of his stomach grow into a full-fledged storm “Has something happened?”

 _Of course something has happened, you fool_ , he thought, _you nearly got yourself killed and I spent what seemed like an eternity counting the heartbeats between your breaths and hoping praying pleading them not to stop._ But his lips remained sealed and he merely shook his head. He knew he was being irrational. He knew it was not the Prince's fault he had been wounded in Battle but the way they all pretended it had been nothing. When it hadn't been. It _hadn't._

Something must have shown on Ori's face because Fíli was suddenly getting back to his feet saying

“Ori?” and stepping closer to him “Speak to me.”

“No.” Ori replied, before he could even make sense of what he was saying “I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to joke and laugh and pretend that everything is perfectly fine when it isn't. When all could have gone terribly wrong. When we almost lost everything. I don't want to pretend we're back at Thorin's Halls and the worst we have to worry about is you and Kíli getting caught by your _amad_ mid-prank. You have nearly _died! Twice!_ ”

He was nearly breathless by the end of his tirade and his hands were shaking but he was angry, so very very angry. And then Fíli said

“I know.” and his voice was very quiet, _too_ quiet, too grave.

And his eyes, his blue eyes were not looking at him, but somewhere beyond, and Ori suddenly felt so stupid, so utterly foolish.

_Of course_ he knew, of course he thought about it. After all he had nearly lost his _brother_ and _uncle._ And all the while Ori had been thinking him irresponsible, and...

“I'm sorry.” Ori said with a small voice, bowing his head. Fíli watched his ink-stained fingers take hold of the hem of his tunic, wringing it nervously and felt that tangle in his chest swell, growing larger and larger until it pressed against his breastbone, cutting off his breaths.

“There's nothing for you to apologise for.” Fíli told him, taking a step forward until he was standing in front of him.

He didn't question his actions as his body moved, his fingers closing around Ori's elbow. Ori's head snapped up, brown eyes wide with something unreadable. And suddenly everything aligned. The long months of the journey and the even longer months afterwards, the longing for his presence, the hollow ache where Ori should have been. Everything made sense and it was simple. So _simple._

“I...” Ori began but his mouth had gone dry and the words were stuck in his throat.

Fíli's eyes were on him, his pupils so wide his blue eyes seemed almost black and the storm in his chest was a gale now, whipping away his breaths and Ori could do nothing but stare as a calloused hand curled to cup his jaw. And then, there were warm lips pressing against his own.

The world stopped. For a heartbeat, an eternity. It stopped.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Inspired by “Midnight” by Coldplay.


End file.
